


love me now or let me go

by timelxrd



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Smut, babey ryan, but also smooth, cmon what were you expecting, graham just wants his doctor back and a cup of tea, guilty yaz, human nature au, thasmin, thirteen being a gay mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-01-29 10:29:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21408697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelxrd/pseuds/timelxrd
Summary: “You’re going to have to be really strong, you lot,” the Doctor announces, tone wavering, breaths coming out more panicked than Yaz or indeed the rest of the group had ever encountered from their usually calm and controlled friend.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 101
Kudos: 183





	1. honey you're familiar (like my mirror years ago)

“You’re going to have to be really strong, you lot,” the Doctor announces, tone wavering, breaths coming out more panicked than Yaz or indeed the rest of the group had ever encountered from their usually calm and controlled friend. “Yaz?” She motions to the engineered metal headpiece propped against the console at her best friend’s side, wetting her lips in a nervous twitch. 

As Yaz passes the accessory over, mindful of the wires connected to its interweaving steel, she fixes her with her misty gaze. “Are you sure about this?” She prompts, strong brows creasing at the bridge of her nose in open concern. “Are you sure this is the  _ only _ way?” then, quieter, “What if you don’t remember us?”

“Oh, Yaz,” the Doctor smiles, but it’s tinged with wariness, with doubt, with undeniable sadness. She didn’t want to have to do this again ever in her lifetimes. “You lot would be pretty hard to forget.” 

Assured, but not comforted, Yaz drops her gaze. 

Behind her, Graham sets a hand over his grandson’s shoulder, who watches on as though he’s just exited his video game without pressing  _ save.  _

“C’mon, fam. Don’t look at me like that.” The Doctor steadies the headrest over blonde locks, dishevelled from running, and swallows audibly at the mix of hopeful, but wary expressions which greet her. “I’m not  _ dying.  _ I’m just not going to be  _ me _ for a little while. Plus —” she meets their gazes in turn, imploring them to see sense. “When have I ever let you down before?"

“You’re right, Doc. We’ve got your back, right, cockles?” Graham directs the question towards the youngest two of the group, who nod because he’s right — they’ll always have her back. 

“Whatever happens,” Yaz murmurs quietly, just loud enough for the Doctor to hear. 

She reaches out, offering Yaz’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll see you soon, alright? And remember — don’t let me open it until the timer stops or we’re in danger.” She motions towards the pocket watch still clutched tightly in Yaz’s hand, then rocks on her toes. “Think I’m ready now. Graham — the switch, please?”

Graham takes a step towards the console, the pad of his index hovering over the yellow switch, which connects up to the device sitting on the crown of the Doctor’s head. 

“Should be fine,” the Doctor nods her confirmation when Graham double-checks, meeting Yaz’s gaze with a quick wink. Within seconds, though, blinding light and searing, burning pain singes at the vessels running through her brain and she clutches at her temples with a piercing scream.

* * *

It’s been a week. 

A week of early starts so she could scour the streets before work, and late finishes to retrace her steps and then some. 

A week of sleepless nights, of dreams obscured and pulled apart by each and every scenario her best friend could have found herself in, each one more morbid, more distressing than the last. 

Yasmin Khan hasn’t slept for more than four hours at a time for a week and it’s beginning to show. 

“Not looking too great, Yaz,” Afia announces the minute Yaz slips into the patrol car beside her, earning a glare from dark-rimmed eyes. “You can’t avoid telling me forever, you know? If you’re not taking care of yourself, It’s my duty to tell the chief. You’re no use walking around like a zombie every shift.”

Flummoxed, Yaz slumps back in her seat like a chided teenager. “I’m fine.”

“If that’s the case, stop being a grumpy arse.” Afia sets the engine running and pulls away from the station in a smooth manoeuvre, heading out onto dark, late evening streets. “I’m getting us coffee.”

Disposable coffee cup cradled between her palms, Yaz gazes into the middle distance as her long-term, chatterbox colleague raves about her most recent boyfriend;  _ Harry,  _ she thinks she hears her say. Apart from offering up the occasional hum in question and in agreement, she can’t find it in herself to tune in properly, not when there are matters more prominent on her mind. 

A flash of blonde hair sweeps past the window of the patrol car and Yaz lurches slightly, splashing searing liquid over her trousers. She’s lucky the material is thick and her co-worker is too distracted by her phone, where she answers a text from the  _ man of her dreams.  _

When the woman pauses at the crossing, Yaz deflates at her unfamiliar features and noticeably longer hair. 

“Yaz, you wanna see how big his —” As though someone above has a telepathic link to Yaz’s brain, Afia is interrupted by the blare of their radios. 

_ “Khan. Mahir. Incident reported at Bad Wolf Inn, Broadchurch Street. Drunk and disorderly. Attendance required as soon as possible.” _

They exchange a knowing look before the car slips back onto quiet streets, the journey silent while they individually prepare themselves for the onslaught of slurred shouts and flailing, aimless limbs. 

By the time they reach the busy pub, a hen party of women in their mid-thirties stumble and dance and sing in heels which threaten disrepair to their jellied limbs. 

“Ten quid one of them chunders over your boots again,” Afia chimes as the car comes to a stop, drawing the handbrake up and slipping her cap atop meticulously groomed dark locks. 

Yaz grimaces at the prospect, shooting her colleague a chiding glare. “You said you wouldn’t bring that up.”

“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport, Yaz. C’mon, we’ve got a hen party to tame.”

_ Taming _ would be the operative word, Yaz finds, when an inflatable phallus is handed over upon asking the most intoxicated of the group for their name. 

Leaving Afia to round up and chatter away to the swaying women, Yaz steps inside the bustling bar to consult the barwoman who had the incident called in. 

Tucking her cap under her arm when the warmth from the populated room leaves her sticky and rapidly heating up, she’s blind to the blonde eyeing her from behind a till. “You here about the hen party, officer? To be honest, I thought they were a bit of a laugh until one of them jumped onto the table and thought crowd surfing would be a good idea. Had to stop them there, really.”

From her spot a mere few feet from the bar, Yaz freezes. 

It had been a week. A week of trawling and searching and worrying, and yet, when Yaz glances up to meet familiar deep green eyes, it suddenly feels worth the wait. 

“You alright?” the blonde quips in a fashion so alike, but  _ unlike _ her, that Yaz has to swallow a lump in her throat. Her features are soft, but the dark rings around her eyes match Yaz’s own and leave concern to clutch and twist at her most vital organ. “Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Yes. Sorry, ma’am. Long day, that’s all,” Yaz lies, stepping forward, posture exuding confidence her voice lacks. “You phoned in?”

“Oh,  _ tell me about it,” _ she replies, leaning against the bartop, her tight-fitted vest leaving faintly toned arms on display. There’s a plaid shirt tied around her waist, cuffed, ripped blue jeans hugging her hips. “I did, yeah. Kinda glad I decided to, now, seeing as though they sent someone as gorgeous as you.” 

Yaz chokes on the remnants of coffee at the back of her throat.  _ Is this the same woman who eats soil and trips over her own feet when Yaz so much as looks at her? _

“Can I get your name, ma’am?” Yaz slips her notebook from her vest pocket, popping her brows when the blonde smirks — because there’s a blush to Yaz’s cheeks now, and she knows her words have made their impact. 

“Jenny. Jenny Smith. It's a pleasure to meet you, officer.”


	2. if i keep my eyes closed she feels just like you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is where the M rating kicks in folks! 
> 
> TW: panic attack

She finds the TARDIS two days later, tucked behind a row of houses in an abandoned garage, entirely out of sight. The ship hums as Yaz approaches, twisting the key the Doctor had gifted her in the lock and stepping past the doors. It’s a little colder inside, lacking its usual cheeky charisma and warmth. 

As she steps up to the console, she’s reminded of the events of the week prior, of the chaos which followed blaring alarms and an unusually panic-stricken time lord. 

_ “They haven’t seen me. Should be fine,” the Doctor had murmured more to herself than the rest of the group, flicking switches here, flipping levers there, then moving to the scanner to take in the readings. “They haven’t seen me. Might not even have to change.” _

_ “Uh — Doctor? These aliens, these _ ** _people_ ** _ tracking you down,” Ryan murmured, rocking on his toes, helpless, guilt riding on every word to slip past his lips. “They have my phone.” _

_ “Yeah? I can get you a new one, that’s fine —” the Doctor tilted her head, hands on her hips, confusion furrowing her brow. _

_ “No, Doctor. That’s not what I mean — there’s pictures on there, Doctor. Pictures of all of us, of _ ** _you.”_ **

_ “ _ ** _Oh_ ** _ .” She paused, then, swallowing. “I see.” All at once, she’d lept into action, drawing a part of the console away from its encasing and leaning in to root through its depths. “Didn’t think I’d have to use this again, I’ve gotta say. Didn’t really want to, either." _

_ “Doctor, I don’t understand. What’s happening?” Yaz, perpetually at the time lord’s side, reached out to touch a hand to her shoulder, finding only tension beneath her palm. “What’s _ ** _that_ ** _ ?” _

_ The Doctor held the metal crown aloft, breathing a huff of air through her nose. “ _ ** _This_ ** _ , Yaz, is a chameleon arch,” she’d stated, the words laden with something indecipherable but nonetheless concerning. “It’ll make me human for as long as is deemed necessary.” _

Yaz blocks the rest of the memory from relaying in her mind, slumping against the console with a sigh. “She’s safe, and that’s what the most important thing is right now, isn’t it?”

A series of digits light the monitor beside her, counting down in hours: the six hundred and seventieth hour passes like the leaves plucked up and whirled in the breeze outside the doors — effortless, but only as fast as their weight will allow. 

Around her, the TARDIS hums its agreement, probing gently at the sole occupant’s subconscious to help ease the pressure there. 

“I’ve been keeping an eye on her, but not enough to make her suspicious — yet. She has a flat on Bannerman Street and she works at the Bad Wolf Inn. Not too shabby, really. I’m going to head there after this, I think. See how she is, what she’s up to, whether there’s any of _ her _ left.”

For a moment, Yaz thinks she can feel the ship enveloping her mind in a warm hug, so she gives the console an affectionate pat. “It’s going to be a long four weeks, huh?”

What sounds like an apologetic thrum reverberates from the metal beneath her palm before Yaz turns for the door. 

Twenty minutes later, Yaz slinks into the bar with a fresh change of clothing but still very much in police-mode. She scans the bar, looking out for a flash of dishevelled blonde locks. 

“Are you stalking me?” comes a strikingly familiar voice, her tone lilting with an undercurrent of mischief. She slides into the spot opposite, dish towel settled over one shoulder. “You took my number the other night, when we first met — you could’ve just called if you wanted to see me again. Saves you popping by every other night.”

“I wasn’t — I’m not — that would be unprofessional, Jenny,” Yaz stammers over the rim of her glass, lemonade sloshing when she sets it down. Beneath the table, her free hand clutches and fists into the sleeve of her leather jacket while she keeps her whirling thoughts at bay. _ Don’t say anything stupid. Don’t say anything stu— _“How are you doing, by the way?”

“Better for seeing you,” Jenny retorts right off the bat as though she’d rehearsed this entire conversation hours beforehand. Yaz can tell from the rings around her eyes that there’s definitely _ something _ niggling at her subconscious and stealing sleep from her petite form nonetheless. “Can I fix you up another drink? My shift ends in ten.”

“Uh —” _ Don’t say yes. Don’t say yes. _“— sure, why not.”

“Lemonade with extra ice?” she springs up to her feet with a grin, clapping her hands together before they tuck into the back pockets of the boyfriend jeans hanging loosely from her slim hips. When Yaz nods, she slinks over the bar top in one fluid motion and earns a warning _ Jenny, this isn’t a gymnasium _ from the burly bloke Yaz presumes is her boss. 

Jenny flashes her a smirk when he turns his back, pupils alight with humour, and Yaz can’t help but shake her head in fond amusement. 

She makes a conscious effort to tame the action back, though, because the blonde is a stranger to her now, and that’s how it should stay until she’s back to her usual _ alien _ self. 

An hour later, however, and the gentle pressure of a hand on her knee makes her decision wane and bend out of shape. Jenny’s touch is warm and confident and her words are flitting in a breeze against the curve of her ear and Yaz is finding it harder and harder to decipher where Jenny ends and the Doctor begins. 

She should leave. She should make a polite excuse and go. 

But then there’s a flash of something akin to recognition in Jenny’s eyes and her breaths pause in their ascent up her throat. 

“Are you _ sure _I haven’t seen you around before, Yasmin?” Jenny asks, and Yaz wants to give in, wants to pry apart the opening of the pocket watch in her bag and have her Doctor back, but she can’t. “It feels like I already know you.”

“These chat-up lines are getting worse by the minute, Jenny, honestly,” Yaz drawls, because distracting her from the question is the main priority, and what’s a bit of harmful flirting? Yaz flirts with her friends all the time — okay, friend, and it happens to be Jenny’s alien counterpart, but _ still. _

Jenny rolls her eyes, unaware of Yaz’s derailing thoughts. “So, Yasmin, what is it you do?” 

So she tells her; she talks about her job and her life and her friends and fabricates her experiences aboard the TARDIS into merely human interactions. Lying hurts, but she knows the Doctor — no, _ Jenny _, will understand in the end. 

“Have you worked here long?” Yaz prompts in a natural pause in the conversation, Jenny’s searing gaze burning holes into her features. She swallows, taking a cooling sip of her drink when Jenny offers her knee a friendly squeeze. Where the Doctor is all reticent stolen glances and secret smiles, Jenny is forthcoming and eager to be in contact wherever possible. 

“Three weeks now. Moved here from further up North about a month ago,” Jenny replies, but she doesn’t quite sound sure of her own words. 

Yaz’s heart splinters and fissures and in a blink, she feels nausea rise from her stomach to the back of her throat in a vivid reminder that this really, _ really _ shouldn’t be happening. Making the excuse to check her phone, she gasps. “Hey — uh, it’s getting pretty late, I should probably—” 

“Oh.” Jenny’s face falls like a kicked puppy but she’s quick to patch it up and encourage a friendly smile in its place. “Let me walk you out?”

“‘Course,” Yaz hums, slipping her leather jacket over her shoulders and letting her gaze fall to her feet when Jenny stands to lead the way. When she risks a glance up, her eyes flirt with the sway to the blonde’s hips and she inhales sharp enough to fill her lungs twice over. 

God, she’s done for. 

The air is numbing when Yaz slips through the double doors and onto the street beyond, so she clutches her jacket a touch closer to her form. 

“Are you warm enough? Wait, let me call you a cab,” Jenny fusses, slipping her mobile from her back pocket and tapping away at the screen like an old relative struggling to come to terms with modern technology. It’s a definite contrast. 

“Hey, no, it’s alright. I’ll warm up while I’m walking,” Yaz interrupts, reaching out to stop her in her attempts. 

When she slips her hand over Jenny’s wrist, the blonde doesn’t hesitate to flip her hand and lace their fingers instead. “Then at least take my number? Just in case.”

“I’ll be okay, Jenny,” Yaz laughs, the sound enough to bring a tentative grin back to Jenny’s face. “But if you’re _ that _ worried, sure. Mind if I have my hand back really quick?”

“Oh! Of course, yeah. Didn’t even realise, sorry.” But she doesn’t let go, not for another few long seconds until Yaz laughs and drags it back to fetch her own phone. “Swapsies?” 

Numbers exchanged — not that Yaz hadn’t already extracted it from the TARDIS, the two women linger beside the double doors of the bustling inn.

Yaz rocks on her toes until they’re facing the direction of her flat. She thinks she can feel warmth spreading from hip to hip, and by the time she realises it’s the winding hold of Jenny’s arm, it’s too late. “See you around, Je—”

A pair of slightly chapped but firm, testing lips seek out and move against her own before Yaz has a chance to blink. 

Regretfully, sinfully, she sinks into the action like a hot, steaming bath at the end of a day of running about and saving worlds. The reminder makes tears prick at her eyes. 

She shouldn’t be doing this. She’s already overstepped a police box full of boundaries as it is. 

She shouldn’t be doing this. 

Fisting a hand into the lapels of Jenny’s unfairly attractive denim jacket, Yaz draws her closer. 

Jenny’s palms find purchase on Yaz’s hips, which she moulds against with a wavering sigh. 

When Yaz pulls back, it’s with a gasp, wide eyes flitting between Jenny’s kiss-swollen lips and flushed features, darkened pupils matching her own. “I’m sorry, I have to go.” 

“I thought —” 

“I can’t do this. I shouldn’t be doing this. I’ve got to go. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” Yaz has to be firm with her because the burning in her gut screams for attention she isn’t deserving of. She knew this was a bad idea from the start, but her heart had spoken before her brain had the chance. “Goodnight, Jenny.” 

“Uh— yeah, goodnight, Yaz. Sorry.” Jenny murmurs quietly towards her retreating form, lips pursed. She reaches up to ghost her fingers over her lips, then her cheek, feeling moisture there which doesn’t belong to her. Had Yaz been crying when she’d kissed her? The thought makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and her heart sink in her chest with the unfamiliar weight of two. 

Once Yaz has disappeared from sight, head hung low, Jenny returns to the warmth of the pub to slump in a stool at the bar for the duration of the evening. 

She’s bearing witness to another vivid daydream of space and gold metal and… Rosa Parks? — when there’s a rustling at her side and the stool next to her shifts. “This seat taken?”

When she turns, meeting the bright blue eyes of a pretty blonde, Jenny swallows back her hurt pride and straightens up. “Not at all,” she practically purrs, eyeing the way the younger woman licks her lips in response. She’s interested. “Actually, can I get you a drink?”

Boldly, the unnamed woman touches a hand to Jenny’s forearm. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

Two hours later and sprawled out on the dishevelled sheets of her bed, Jenny closes her eyes. Distractedly, she finds herself imagining Yaz’s face buried between her thighs and working away at her like she’s an impossible puzzle worth solving rather than the blonde currently catering to her needs. 

What’s happening to her?

Jenny threads her fingers through… Nicola’s(?) hair and gently nudges her away, breathing a huff of frustration to herself. She’s empty, seeking feelings and sensations from anything and anyone she could possibly utilise, and nothing seems to be working. Nothing apart from Yaz.

“Um — I’m not — I’m sorry, I think the moment has passed, honey,” Jenny whispers apologetically, trying and failing not to wilt under the woman’s glare. “I can — I can help you out if you want? I’m just not — I’m not really in the mood now.”

Flummoxed, the younger woman stands, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand and reaching for her discarded blouse. She’s silent as she redresses, feet slipping into a pair of heels and fly still undone when she backs towards the door. “Thanks for nothing, Jane.”

“It’s — it’s Jenny,” Jenny replies, bringing her knees up to her chest so she can weave her arms around them and slump her forehead atop. “I think.”

* * *

Yaz can’t stop thinking. No matter how many trashy programmes she plays on her television, she can’t halt her racing thoughts and store them for a more convenient time. There’s a headache blooming in the corners of her eyes and extending backwards, lighting up her head in a glorious display of throbbing discomfort. 

She wants to call her mum, seek reassurance only a parent can give, but what would she say? 

_ Oh, you remember the Doctor, right? Well, she’s actually an alien but she’s undercover at the minute as a human and she doesn’t know who we are. But the thing is, Mum, she’s still **her**, and I’m still head over heels, so when she kissed me it hurt. How come the Doctor would never do that, yet it’s the first thing Jenny jumps to? Is it that obvious? _

She’s still fretting through a bowl of popcorn when her phone lights up on the coffee table, its resounding vibrations making it niggle its way towards the feet propped against its surface. 

“Hello?” Yaz chimes as she answers, not having checked over the caller ID. 

“Is this — is this Yaz?_ ” _comes the breathless response, and Yaz immediately knows who the accented voice belongs to. 

“Jenny? Is everything okay?” she asks, concern furrowing her brows. She notes the heaving breaths falling through the line with a sense of unease, counting the seconds between each gasp in a method she’s experienced only a handful of times before. Accompanied by a wave of dread, she realises her friend is having a panic attack. 

“Yaz, I’m scared.”


	3. wrap me up, enfold me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here comes the smut train and more of guilty yaz choo choo

_ “Yaz, I’m scared.” _

“Jenny? Jenny, what’s happened? Are you in trouble?” Yaz questions, slipping from her position on the couch to stand and begin pacing in front of her television. She transitions into police-mode as easily as slipping into a pair of well-worn trainers. 

“I’m at home, I just — Yaz, I can’t breathe,” Jenny wheezes, dropping her mobile to her pillow while she slumps back against her sweat-ridden sheets. “I was — I was trying to get to sleep, and I kept on having these weird hallucinations like old memories and then my head started burning and I couldn’t breathe. I can’t  _ breathe _ , Yaz. It hurts. It hurts so much."

“ _ Shit,”  _ Yaz breathes down the line, heart racing like winter oceans in her ears. “I’m coming over.” And then, because she can’t let on the fact she already knows, Yaz catches herself. “What’s your address, Jenny?” 

“Bannerman Road, flat thirteen,” Jenny whispers, voice catching and catering off into a gasp which echoes down the line. 

“Can you practice some breathing exercises for me while I’m on my way, Jenny?” Yaz implores, reaching for her keys and slipping into her coat as she makes her way to the door. It’s only two blocks away, she reassures herself. 

“Think so,” Jenny rasps, teeth chattering. 

“Take a long, slow breath through your nose, hold it to the count of three, and then gradually breathe out for me.” Yaz has trained for this, but of all the situations for her to put it to good use in, she never could’ve imagined this. “Do you think you could do that?”

“Yeah, I just — sorry, I’m sorry. I’m going to try,” Jenny stammers, fighting back the tear tracks staining her cheeks and moisture pooling in the corners of her eyes to inhale gradually through her nose. 

By this time, Yaz is already leaving the main entrance to her block of flats, coloured panelling to her back. “Don’t apologise, Doc—  _ Jenny. _ Seriously. I’ll be there in ten, okay?”

If Jenny registers her slip-up, she doesn’t say anything, instead centring all her focus on her steadying inhales and exhales. Her hands are trembling, so she waits for Yaz to hang up rather than doing it herself. “You’re fine, everything’s fine. Yaz is on her way. Yaz is —” she groans on a stuttering inhale, losing count, “ — on her way.” 

True to her word, ten minutes later, there’s a knock at Jenny’s door and the blonde sits up to call through from her room. “Door’s open!”

A click and a shuffle of feet later, Yaz stands in the doorway to Jenny’s room with an expression far too concerned for someone who has only known of her existence for a matter of weeks. “Oh,  _ Jenny.” _

“I — I managed to work on those exercises. They’re starting to help,” Jenny whispers, voice hoarse, eyes bloodshot, rimmed and wide. 

She looks so small, so vulnerable, so  _ human _ that it takes a moment for Yaz to coax her expression back to neutral concern. “I’m glad. Can you keep practicing while I fetch you some water?” 

A swift nod eases her worries somewhat. 

Yaz pads back through to the flat’s plain, all but empty kitchen, filling up a glass of water and taking a deep breath upon her return. “Here, take a sip.” 

“Thank you,” Jenny responds, averting her gaze when she empties the glass of its contents in a matter of seconds. “Huh. Must’ve been thirsty.”

“Do you want to talk about it, Jenny?” Yaz asks a few minutes later, a soothing rhythm melting against Jenny’s shoulder when she struggles with her breathing once more. Sure, she’s in love with her, but there’s a difference between restraining oneself and acting like you don’t care at all. Yaz has been treading that line for quite a while now. So, drawing circles with her fingertips against her bare shoulder, Yaz ignores the fluttering in her chest when Jenny sinks into her side. 

“I don’t really know what to say which won’t have me put in some kind of institute and force-fed cold mashed potatoes for the rest of my life,” Jenny eventually answers, hanging her head in exhaustion — both physical and mental. She’s drained, and all she wants is a good night’s sleep, but apparently the laws of slumber don’t agree. 

“I’ve heard a  _ lot _ in my time, Jenny. I’m not going to judge,” Yaz implores, dropping her hand to her lap when Jenny’s breathing seems to even out entirely. 

Long, slender fingers reach for her own and Yaz can’t deny her this. She interweaves their hands and squeezes. 

“But if you’re not ready, I’m not going to force you, either,” she continues, voice a little lighter, a little quieter; as if sharing a secret with a best friend at a sleepover. “I would never.”

“I feel like —” Jenny starts, then shakes her head in an effort to gather her thoughts more comprehensively. “I feel like I’m here, but I’m  _ not.  _ Like my memories are all jumbled and I can’t tell what has actually happened in my life and what hasn’t.” She picks at the threads of her sleeve, channeling her anxieties between the seams. “I’ve been having these dreams, Yaz, for three weeks now. You’re in them too. There’s two more of us, and we fly about in space aboard a ship.” 

“Jenny…” Yaz whispers, her heart a fastening ache in her chest. 

“I  _ know _ . I  _ know _ it sounds stupid and silly but — Yaz, they’re so  _ vivid _ . They’re more like memories than dreams. And then I wake up and my head is  _ burning.  _ Tonight was the worst it’s gotten.” she blushes, then, wilting under her gaze. “That’s why I called you. I didn’t know what else to do.” 

Tracing a pattern into the back of her hand, Yaz meets her gaze with an empathetic frown, worry lacing her brows. “It doesn’t sound stupid or silly at all, and I’m glad you did.”

Jenny’s hand shifts, fingers weaving between her own. Her voice is small. “I’m sorry, again, about earlier, I just — you’re the only one who’s made me  _ feel  _ anything for as long as long as I can remember. You look at me and I feel like I’ve known you all my life, Yaz.”

Yaz swallows heavily, but she’s unable to avert her gaze from Jenny’s own. She wants to tell her she feels the exact same way, that she has done since she’d fallen through the roof of a train all those months ago, but she’s not the Doctor. Will she even remember this when the timer is up and they’re safe again?

When Jenny’s beautifully sad green eyes redirect to her lips, she licks them subconsciously. “Jenny, I feel the same, but I just can’t—” 

“Why, Yaz? Why can’t you?” Jenny drops her voice to a sad sort of plead, and it’s Yaz who closes the distance this time, noses touching. She can’t stand to see her upset. “If you feel the same, why can’t you let go?”

Internally, Yaz fights a losing battle. 

_ You’re not her,  _ she wants to say, but then Jenny cups her cheek, nudging her tear-dampened nose along Yaz’s own, and she leans into her touch.  _ Maybe she is, though. Maybe it just took changing into human form to figure out how she feels.  _

_ Maybe there’s hope in this.  _

“I —” Yaz’s response dies on her tongue when Jenny ghosts her lips over hers, the gesture gentler, lighter than their last one. 

It’s a trap, but Yaz can’t bring herself to refuse the bait. 

Jenny sighs like she’s just found the answer to all of the world’s problems, green eyes falling behind the cover of eyelids and movements tentative. 

Yaz braves the fire, fingers spanning the slow slope of Jenny’s stomach to curl into the material of her oversized pyjama top while her lips begin a firmer duet between them. The longer they continue on, the less and less determination Yaz finds in herself to pull away. 

“Yaz,” Jenny whines into her mouth, guiding Yaz’s hand toward the hem of her top. She captures her bottom lip between her teeth, earning a wavering hum from the younger woman, then pulls back to lather attention to her jaw and neck. “Please, I need this. Make me feel something,  _ please.” _

Everything in Yaz screams the opposite _ ,  _ but when Jenny draws her hand beneath the material to cup her chest, her thoughts fall blank. She’s soft and smooth beneath her touch, a flush coating her cheeks and chest when, curiously, Yaz flirts her thumb over her nipple, then circles the sensitive bud. 

Her gasps soon waver off into cries of  _ please, Yaz  _ until five minutes later, when Yaz slips her hand down the slope of her stomach to the pyjama shorts clinging to her hips, adorned with tiny cupcakes. She isn’t wearing underwear beneath, which Yaz learns with a groan when her fingers find only slick heat. “Oh my  _ God _ .”

Jenny’s thighs part on instinct, inviting wandering fingers to explore. Her hips squirm with the first brush of pressure over her clit, mind thrown into overdrive. “Please. I need to feel this. Please let me feel.”

“Anything— ” Yaz falters, a moan melting against Jenny’s collarbone when she grinds up against her touch. “I’d do anything for you,” because it’s true, Yaz realises, the throb between her legs increased tenfold beneath the once enclosed safety of her ribs. Her heart suddenly doesn’t feel so secure.

When she sinks two fingers inside her a short time later, curling them in a manner which elicits a cry from the arching body beneath her, Yaz doesn’t think she’s seen anything so beautiful. The sight is scarred onto her memory forever. 

“Yaz,” Jenny whimpers sometime later, all but curled around her, thighs trembling, jaw slack and eyes shut, a crease between her brows. “Yaz, I think I’m going to —”

“I’ve got you,” Yaz whispers, ducking her head to mouth at her chest through the thin fabric of her top. Beneath her, Jenny gasps, stomach muscles flexing and easing in a string of gorgeous signs that she’s about to reach her peak. “Let go.”

When Jenny comes, muscles fluttering around her fingers and head tossed back into her pillows, Yaz’s name falls from her lips like a prayer. There’s stars behind her closed eyes and a warmth and solidness to her body she hadn’t experienced before, like a painting finally granted colour. 

Yaz slumps against her side with a breathless hum, observing the way her muscles continue to twitch and tremble with aftershocks. She looks wrecked, lashes fluttering open only to pull shut milliseconds later.

“Stay,” Jenny manages to whisper five minutes later, reaching out to fist her fingers into her jumper. “Please.”

“If that’s what you need,” Yaz whispers in the low light, reaching for the sheets so she can curl them around Jenny’s form, limp with bliss. She sinks against her side, working hard to defuse the fire still burning in her gut. 

“Thank you,” Jenny turns, muffling the words against Yaz’s shoulder. She slings an arm over her stomach, fingers twisting in the material once more. “For coming around, for helping me; for making me feel again.”

When Yaz doesn’t respond right away, Jenny reaches out, the back of her fingers brushing against her cheek. She finds moisture there and her heart sinks. “You’re crying.”

“Just tired, that’s all. My eyes are watering,” Yaz replies in dismissal, raising a hand between them to draw slow circles against her hip. 

“You can talk to me, you know,” Jenny whispers, brushing her lips in a ghosting caress over the corner of her mouth. 

“I know,” Yaz lies, unable not to melt beneath her touch despite her efforts. “Get some rest, Jenny.” She can sense eyes on her but she can’t meet her gaze, not now. 

Against her neck, she feels Jenny sigh, but it’s a sleepy gesture more than anything. “Goodnight, Yaz.”

“Night, Jenny.” Although how much sleep she’s  _ actually _ going to get is beyond her. 

The next morning, Yaz only stays for coffee before she makes her excuses to leave. She presses a kiss to Jenny’s lips before she does, if only to stop her puppy-eyed stares. 

At least that’s what she tells herself.

She’s glad to be back at work in the afternoon, the distraction of a dozen sky-high teenagers and the usual parking disputes easing her mind from thoughts of Jenny and the Doctor and everything in between. 

But when Jenny calls her up later that evening, breathless and gasping but in a different way entirely to their last exchange over the phone, Yaz lets her in again. 

And again, and again.

They’re curled around the dishevelled sheets of Yaz’s bed late into the night, exploring each other, lost in the little world they’ve created between the walls of her room, when Jenny speaks up. 

“Have you ever heard of a place called Gallifrey, Yaz?” the blonde hums, features soft with post-coital bliss, a faint flush to her cheeks. She dances the pads of her fingertips over Yaz’s prominent jaw in a trail towards the jewellery littering her ear. 

“No, don’t think so,” Yaz blinks tired eyes open and can’t resist losing herself in her counterpart’s own this time. “Why?”

“Keeps popping into my head for some reason. Sounds a bit poncy, doesn’t it?” Jenny laughs, but the sound isn’t as happy as she works to encourage. “And TARDIS— ever heard of that?"

Yaz has grown to hide the way she freezes beneath her, which she’s never been so grateful for in this moment. She shifts, rolling onto her back and, with surprising strength, lifts Jenny to settle over her hips with a faint squeak. 

She slips a hand between them, watching with a sigh when Jenny instinctively sinks onto the two digits pressed against her entrance. “Stop thinking, Jenny.”

Yaz is stepping out of her room, dressed in an oversized t-shirt of Jenny’s and her underwear when Ryan comes wandering in the next morning. “Yaz? How’s the surveillance mission on the Doctor go—” He recoils in surprise when he notices her state of wear, shielding his eyes. “Ew, mate. Put some clothes on.”

Yaz swallows heavily, parting her lips to return his banter when her bedroom door opens and messy blonde hair peeps around the frame, then a hand, which curls into the fabric of Yaz’s top. Jenny is clearly unaware of their guest. “Come back to bed, babe. I could do with a hand,” she purrs in a tone _certainly _not definitive of someone who needs help changing bed sheets. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

Ryan chokes on his own tongue. 

When the blonde disappears again, Yaz averts her gaze to the floor awkwardly, guiltily, rocking on her toes. There’s a hickey on her thigh, swirls of purple and red half-hidden beneath her top. She catches sight of it in the corner of her eye and hastily draws the material over it, but Ryan isn’t stupid. 

Ryan reaches out to stabilise himself against the nearest wall, glancing between his best friend and her bedroom door with a look of shock. 

“ _ Seriously, mate _ ?”


	4. your mess is mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhhhhhhhhh so im going to hell
> 
> warning for smut -- like, lots of it. too much. 
> 
> and now im going to hide

“It’s — It’s not what it looked like,” Yaz murmurs over the mid-November breeze, a disposable coffee cup cradled between cold palms. She wishes the heat from her cheeks would spread to her fingertips. 

“Then what  _ was _ it, mate? ‘Cos it seemed pretty obvious to me.” Ryan raises a single brow, sitting back to fold his arms. His puffer coat rustles with the movement. 

“Look, she  _ needed _ me, she’s not — Ryan, she’s  _ struggling _ ,” Yaz leans forward, lifting her scarf a little higher when his gaze settles on the reddened mark gracing her pulse. She’d  _ told _ Jenny not to leave any evidence, but the Doctor has never been very good at following rules, so she guesses she gets that from her. 

“And you thought sleeping with her would help?” Ryan responds after a sip of coffee, brows pinching in the centre. His expression softens, however, when Yaz takes a sharp inhale and it’s not because of the sudden downdraft of wind. This is the last time he’s suggesting to sit  _ outside _ the coffee shop. “Listen, I’m just looking out for you — like a best mate does. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I know, I  _ know,”  _ Yaz sighs, dropping her chin into both her palms when her stomach flips enough to nudge her coffee away. She rolls her head forward until she can glare holes into the surface of the table. “But you should’ve  _ seen _ her. I couldn’t  _ not _ do anything. She’s not dealing with it all very well, Ryan. She keeps seeing things in her dreams —  _ memories;  _ of the TARDIS, of our trips, of all of us. I just wanted to take her mind off it.  _ She  _ wanted me to.”

She’s glad her face is hidden because it’s burning with the revelation. “Plus, you know how I feel about her.”

Ryan reaches out, then, nudging at the hand cradling the side of her head. “I’m sorry. It’s just — she’s not  _ her,  _ Yaz. You said it yourself when you told us you’d found her. What if — what if when she comes back she doesn’t remember?” 

“You think I haven’t considered that?” Yaz bites back, but it lacks venom. She feels a little helpless, and it’s almost too much to take. Yasmin Khan is always in control — it’s built into her DNA.

Tears prick at her eyes and stubborn hands swipe them away. “If this is the only chance I get, can’t I make the most of it?”

“Wait, wait, wait —  _ Yaz,  _ you  _ don’t  _ think the Doctor is head over heels for you?” Ryan asks like it’s the most surprising piece of information he’s heard. When Yaz glances up, nodding tearfully, he gawps. “Oh my  _ god,  _ you are  _ so _ blind.” 

“What? I don’t understand. Isn’t that why you said I’d get hurt?” Yaz frowns, toying with the napkin tucked beneath her coffee until it tears between the pads of her fingertips. 

“Yaz, mate,  _ no. _ She’s totally into you. But there’s only a couple of days left on the countdown.  _ That _ was why.”

Yaz drops her head and groans into the crook of her elbow, startling an elderly couple ambling by. “You reckon she’ll remember  _ any  _ of this?”

When Ryan takes a sip of his now lukewarm beverage rather than responding, Yaz sinks further into herself. If only the cigarette-littered pavement slabs beneath her could crack and fissure and swallow her whole. 

“Just — just try to keep some distance for the last couple of days, yeah? Then, when the Doctor is back,  _ properly, _ you can talk to her,” Ryan suggests, words tinged with enough empathy to keep Yaz’s guilt at bay, for now. 

“I think I can do that,” Yaz nods, sitting up a little straighter. 

“I kinda miss her, you know? It’s been pretty boring these last few weeks.” Ryan’s gaze flits and scans their environment in dismay, as though annoyed things seem to carry on as normal despite the loss of the planet’s main defence. 

“Nobody else has any idea, huh?” Yaz quips, reading Ryan’s thoughts as though he’d projected them directly onto her subconscious. “Makes you realise how lucky we are to have met her.”

“Remember when she tried to make a fried egg sandwich at Grandad’s?” Ryan reminisces with a faint snort, but it’s affectionate humour which graces his words, as always. “Almost set the house on fire. Still —” he pauses for effect, “— better than what grandad could have made.”

“I’m totally snitching on you for that next time I see him,” Yaz counters with a snide smile, and for half a minute she’s delightfully guiltless. 

“Aw,  _ mate,  _ don’t you dare. I thought we were besties?” Ryan huffs, folding his arms and crossing his legs at the ankles. 

Guilt returns like the changing of the tide but quickened tenfold when a flash of blonde hair and a breezy smile sweeps out the doors of the coffee shop opposite. 

Ryan turns when Yaz seems unable to tear her gaze away, biting into her bottom lip and curling her fingers into the arms of her chair to keep herself from capturing Jenny’s attention. “Yaz.”

“I know,” she sighs, hold easing somewhat when the blonde crosses the next road along to head out of sight. “I know.” 

* * *

The TARDIS has become Yaz’s new solace amongst the mess she’s made. The first time she returned after a late morning between the sheets with its pilot she’d fully expected her to refuse her entry, so the sympathetic wheeze of engines past their prime was a pleasant surprise. 

She pads up to the console and taps at the scanner, ducking her head to eye the descending digits. “Three days left, huh? I reckon I can handle three days without her.” 

The ship hums, but the sound isn’t as confident as usual. 

“Oi! Are you  _ doubting _ me?” Yaz chides up into endless ceilings of gold. “I’ll prove you wrong, just you wait. I can hold back. I can do this.”

* * *

Yaz hums in pleasant surprise when she walks home two evenings later and, passing by Jenny’s work, earns an armful of swooning blonde. “Yaz!”

Jenny steals a kiss from her lips which Yaz is never going to get back. “Hi.”

“Hi, Jenny,” Yaz licks her lips, eyeing the road ahead over Jenny’s shoulder. If she meets her gaze, she won’t be able to hold back. “I was just on my way home. You okay?”

“Well, I just finished, so —” Jenny hums in shy flirtation. “You wanna come over?”

Yaz tenses against Jenny’s arms, which are still very much in place around her neck. She breathes a nervous laugh and feigns a yawn when it trails off. “Um — I really shouldn’t. I’m pretty tired, to be honest.” 

Jenny only huffs playfully, leaning in to brush a kiss to space where jaw meets neck. “Playing hard to get, huh?” She grins, oblivious to the whirlwind brewing in Yaz’s mind. Another kiss melts against Yaz’s ear, which is then tugged between pearly whites. “It’s kinda hot, I’ve gotta admit.”

“No, Jenny, I—” Yaz tries to shrug her off, but then there’s lips on her neck and Jenny’s voice has dropped an octave and she’s set alight once more. “God.”

“You  _ what _ ?” Jenny purrs back, trailing her kisses along to her pulse where she swipes and swirls her talented tongue against dark skin. 

Yaz melts against her, forgoing her lack of contact to fist a hand into the blonde’s plaid shirt. Black skinny jeans do nothing but accentuate her slim hips and thighs when she drops her gaze between them. “I can’t, Jenny.”

“Tell me to stop, Yaz,” Jenny implores in challenge. Yaz can  _ feel _ her smirk against her skin. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

Yaz scans their environment with a cautious eye, wary of the bustling pub but so far, they’re the only ones outside. The streetlight casts them in shadow. “We shouldn’t,” she whispers, willpower falling away like change from torn pockets. Jenny leans up, swiping her tongue along her bottom lip and coaxing heat towards her gut. “Please don’t stop.” 

“Knew you couldn’t resist,” Jenny draws back with a shit-eating grin, looping her fingers around Yaz’s to all but drag her in the direction of her home. 

* * *

Lost in her taste twenty minutes later, Yaz spells out her guilt against swollen pink flesh until Jenny coils taught with a cry of her name. She watches her unfurl under her attentions, capturing the moment and locking it up in the far reaches of her mind. “You’re so beautiful, Jenny.”

Breathless, the blonde drags Yaz into a lazy kiss, curling around her in security and possessiveness Yaz yearns to wean herself from. “You always say that in a different tone to everything else,” Jenny observes, slipping a hand down to Yaz’s bare thigh and walking her fingertips upwards. “Like you mean every word.”

Despite the overwhelming need for attention between her legs, Yaz gently draws Jenny’s hand away from her. She mourns the loss immediately. “It’s because I do. I mean every word.”

“Don’t think anyone’s called me beautiful before,” Jenny hums, but her voice is small and her eyes are puppy-like when Yaz denies her advances. “Why won’t you let me touch you?”

“Well, then, it’s about time someone did,” Yaz counters, following the swirls and creases of the plaster coating the ceiling above her head when Jenny voices her question. “I’m — I’m just tired, that’s all. There’s a lot on my mind. It’s alright, tonight was about  _ you,  _ not me.”

“Now that would just be selfish,” Jenny hums, leaning in to press swollen lips to the curve of Yaz’s neck, tongue swiping over a mark she’d made earlier. Her free hand spans her stomach muscles beneath her top. “You’re so tense, Yaz. Stop holding back. I can make you feel good.” She pauses, then, imploring Yaz to meet her gaze when she doubts herself. “Right?”

“God, Jenny. Of  _ course _ you can — you’re like,  _ insanely  _ good, I just —” Yaz sighs, reaching up to tug her fingers through her hair. Jenny keeps quiet, allowing her to gather her thoughts, then swiftly cast them aside when she moves to settle between Yaz’s legs. 

“Please,” Jenny pleads, words falling in warm breaths against her core through her underwear. When Yaz hesitates, not refusing her, Jenny licks a slow line from her core to her clit over thin, ruined fabric. 

Yaz freezes, instinctively threading her fingers through Jenny’s hair. “It’s — I —” 

“I can be gentle, I can stop,  _ whenever _ you want. Just tell me,” Jenny murmurs so softly, so desperately, Yaz feels tears prick at her eyes and a fresh wave of heat shoot towards her core. “I just want to make you feel good, Yaz.”

When Yaz nods, swift and unthinking, driven simply by the need between her legs, she closes her eyes, willing herself to think not of the Doctor, but a stranger nestled against her core and mapping her out beneath her tongue, underwear cast aside.

She’s quiet in the build-up to her orgasm, which, embarrassingly, never takes too long with Jenny in control. But she laps at her so gently, so carefully, so  _ lovingly,  _ that Yaz finds it harder and harder to separate the two versions of the same woman infiltrating her thoughts and turning her into putty. 

When she comes, it’s with a wavering whimper, fingers tightening in Jenny’s hair for a mere moment before she slumps back against messy sheets, sated and tingling with tiny aftershocks.

“Thank you,” Jenny murmurs as she crawls back up, peppering affectionate kisses to her jaw and cheeks until it’s too much for Yaz to bear. In the low light of her bedroom, Jenny doesn’t notice the tears tumbling lazily down Yaz’s cheeks until her lips brush against the moisture there. “Wait — Yaz. Yaz, Yaz, why are you crying?” She sits up on her heels, cradling a dampened cheek. “Oh,  _ fuck _ , did I hurt you? Did I go too far?  _ Shit,  _ Yaz.” 

“No, no, no. You’re wonderful, you’re perfect, I —” Yaz slips into the arms Jenny offers, burying her face into her neck when tears continue to soak her skin. “I’m a really bad person, Jenny. I should never have —” she chokes on a sob, squeezing her eyes shut. The more comfort Jenny offers, hands rubbing up and down her spine, the harder Yaz finds it to keep herself together. “I should never have done this.”

“Yaz, what do you mean?” Jenny replies, voice small and a little sad. Yaz’s bottom lip trembles as she peels back, sitting up to draw her knees to her chest and cling to them for comfort. “I don’t understand.”

When Yaz meets her gaze for a fleeting moment, it’s enough to break her heart again. “You don’t want me; not really. You think you do, but it’s just because I seem familiar, isn’t it?” 

Jenny freezes, dumbfounded, her words settling in her brain like a blaring siren. When she frowns, her brows narrow. “You don’t think I want you?”

Yaz shakes her head, swallowing thickly. She gives a faint sniff, a single tear tumbling down to her top lip and clinging there for dear life. “You don’t.”

“Why would you think that?” the Doctor — no _ , Jenny  _ questions in forlorn surprise, lips parted. “After all this? You don’t think I want you?” she shakes her head, letting out a soft laugh. “Yes, it seems like I’ve known you all my life, but that doesn’t change the way I feel  _ about _ you, Yaz. You’re — like, the best person I’ve ever me—” 

She’s interrupted by the firm, powerful pressure of lips against hers, the tangy hint of tears melting against her own and keeping her from uttering the same words Yaz had relayed to her counterpart a lengthy time ago. 

In the back of her mind, when two fingers slip past welcoming heat, Yaz hopes beyond hope that the resonance behind those words means they’re true, because they’re all she’s got. 

Surprised but needy nonetheless, Jenny moans into Yaz’s mouth when the fingers between her legs curl inside her, dragging along her walls in a whirlwind of pleasure. She stretches around her with a pleasant burn which makes her cry out, giving in to the punishing pace Yaz sets. 

“Tell me you need me. Tell me I’m not wrong,” Yaz pants against her, ducking her head capture a pink bud between her lips. “Tell me I’m not being selfish.”

“I’ve never needed you so bad, Yaz. Please,” Jenny groans when Yaz sinks her teeth into her nipple, sucking ravenously. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen her look so hungry. It sends shivers down her spine and makes her contract over and over around her pumping fingers. “You’re so perfect.” She pauses to bite down against Yaz’s shoulder when she gradually adds another digit, stretching her deliciously. “Oh,  _ fuck.  _ You’re going to make me come.”

Yaz whimpers against her flesh when she feels the scrape of teeth at her shoulder, her own hips twitching into empty space while Jenny’s squirm and jump into the strokes of her fingers. 

The second her thumb presses firm and unyielding against her clit, Jenny comes with a cry loud enough to wake her neighbours from a coma. 

She flutters around her for the next minute or so, panting and spent and absolutely wrecked. When Yaz draws her fingers free, they’re caught and dragged between the blonde’s lips without hesitation. 

Yaz has to glance away, but the swipe and swirl of a talented tongue against the pads of her fingers sends her mind into a spiral. 

“This is how badly I want you, Yaz. This is what you do to me,” Jenny purrs, drawing back from her fingers with a satisfying pop. she wets her lips, reaching for her. “Now let me show you properly.” 

They’re spent and exhausted half an hour later, Yaz’s head settled against Jenny’s chest and listening intently for any echoes of two beats beneath her ear, when Yaz finally breaks through the comfortable quiet. She knows the blonde isn’t asleep yet — she’s still drawing gentle circles in unknowing Gallifreyan against her bare hip. “Jenny?”

“Mm?” Jenny hums, lashes fluttering. She lifts a hand, tucking a natural curl behind Yaz’s ear and following its trail to the curve of her earlobe She massages the pads of her fingers against the space behind it, drawing a sigh from her lover.

“Those dreams you keep having,” Yaz starts, voice raspy with fatigue. In her sated, relaxed state, she’s emboldened. “You ever considered they might be true?”

There’s a rumble of soft laughter from beneath her, breath rustling the hair at the top of her head. “Travelling around in time and space in a tiny police box? Sounds a bit fairytale to me.” 

Yaz chuckles, but it’s a little empty. “Yeah, maybe.” 

“Tired?” Jenny probes kindly, thumb brushing the shell of her ear. When Yaz nods but refuses to move, she chuckles, reaching out to shuffle their discarded clothing from the sheets so they can curl up properly. 

There’s a small  _ thunk _ when Yaz’s jeans fall to the floor, the sound of something rolling along the floor capturing the blonde’s attention. 

“What was that?” Jenny leans over the side of the bed, curiously eyeing the floor in the darkness of the room. Her gaze lands on a circular shape and she thanks her long limbs for the ease at which she can reach out and pluck the object from her purple rug. “A  _ pocket watch?” _

Sleepily, Yaz sits up, but by the time she realises what’s about to happen, it’s too late. “Wait — don’t open —  _ shit!” _

Sheets pooled in her lap but otherwise absolutely bare, Jenny flips the protective latch open.


	5. but you're right here now (and i think you'll stay)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> final chapter time!!!! so this turned out softer than i'd planned so i apologise if u were expecting some angst or action!!! ive tried my best to do this justice ♥♥
> 
> thank you for everyone who's followed along with this and i really hope you enjoy!!!♥

“Uhh,” the Doctor starts, eyes wide, golden flecks still dancing towards her features and absorbing through pale flesh. “Yaz?”

“I— yes?” Yaz replies quietly, breathlessly, sheets tucked up to her chest. If she were a feline, she’d be cowering, curling in on herself and hiding behind her tail.

“We’re —” she pauses, glancing between them before averting her gaze entirely. “We seem to be — sans clothing. A little.” Another glance. “Quite a lot, actually.”

“Um — yeah, we —” Yaz falters, curling her fingers through dishevelled hair and drawing her knees to her chest. “We should probably — I’m going to take a shower!” So she reaches for the towel laying at her bedside, grateful for its placement, curls it around bare skin and scampers into the adjoining en suite.

“... Right,” the Doctor murmurs in her absence, spotting the fob watch laying open and empty in her lap in sudden understanding before she searches for her clothes.

She finds a pair of ripped jeans and a sweater in her size scattered on the floor and concludes they must be hers, slipping into them easily.

In the next room, Yaz immerses herself beneath the spray in an attempt to wash away the last week of blissful ignorance. The Doctor is back, now, and Jenny is gone.

Jenny is gone, she chants to herself, Jenny is gone and the Doctor is back.

When tears fall, flowing water catches them and sends them astray.

Hair falling in damp ringlets over her shoulders while she buttons up a fresh blouse, Yaz reappears in her bedroom to a fully-dressed, pacing Doctor.

She offers up a kind smile despite their awkward situation, tucking her hands into her jean pockets. “So, did we —”

“We can just — it’s okay if you want to just forget this happened, I don’t mind, it didn’t — it was just a bit of fun, right?” Yaz reels her thoughts off in one go, laying herself apart and inviting the Doctor to pluck her heart from her chest and squash it beneath her weathered boots.

“I’m sure it — I’m sure it meant someth— oh! I’ve homed in on the TARDIS, she’s just down the road. You might want to move that chair before she —” The ship begins to materialise around them and the telltale wheeze and crack of wood makes Yaz roll her eyes.

“You broke my chair, didn’t you?”

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, you shouldn’t leave them hanging around the place.”

When Yaz laughs, she momentarily forgets the weight of guilt on her shoulders. When she eyes the faint red mark blemishing the pale skin of the Doctor’s neck, though, it all comes tumbling back.

As though the Doctor can read her mind, she turns to offer up an indecipherable expression Yaz almost thinks is pity. “Quite the few weeks you’ve had, I presume?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Yaz replies cautiously, stepping up to the console and eyeing the scanner.

“The timer is finished. The Jinaritas should’ve given up trying to find me by now, but we should still be careful.” She nudges a lever to her right, looking out of place when she pilots her ship in a pair of baggy ripped jeans and a plain sweatshirt — Yaz’s, in fact. The detail leaves her reeling slightly. “Right, let’s pick up the boys and have a well-earned catch up.”

Before Yaz can protest; can curl up into a ball and melt into the floor, the ship lands with its usual thump.

Graham blunders in within seconds, regarding the Doctor with a fond glare.

“Seems the chair count has raised to two,” the Doctor whispers conspiratorially too close to Yaz’s ear not to earn a sharp inhale, memories flooding her mind.

“Yeah,” Yaz laughs weakly, stepping forward just to put some distance between them.

“Nice to have you back, Doc,” Graham says in earnest as he pads up to the console, giving her back a swift pat.

Ryan slips through the doors, next, recognising the Doctor’s jumper as the one Yaz had been wearing only days prior and sending his best friend a questioning look. When Yaz ducks her head, cheeks flushed and expression remorseful, he stops a teasing remark on the tip of his tongue.

“Are we safe now?” he asks instead, instinctively reaching out to touch the nearest lever.

“As safe as we can be,” the Doctor announces with a shrug which doesn’t seem so confident. Ryan observes the way she keeps glancing at Yaz as though she wants to say something, but Yaz refuses to glance up from a set of buttons on the console. She gives up, eventually, pressing down on a lever at her feet and retrieving a biscuit. She takes a bite and suddenly sways a little. “Just gotta keep a watch out. Jinaritas are well-known for holding grudges. I would know, I dated one once.”

She’s talking faster than usual, like a ship reeling off a rescue signal in the shadow of a cresting wave.

Yaz sweeps forward just in time to catch her when she stumbles forward, head-over-heels in a fashion quite the opposite than she’d hoped.

“Sorry, fam. Turning human — it always —” she pauses, head lolling against Yaz’s shoulder where she holds her securely. “ — it always weathers the ol’ brain a bit. Getting familiar with —” she pauses again, struggling to keep her eyes open under the sudden weight of a time lord consciousness. “ — two hearts and a respiratory bypass system after a month without using them. Feeling a bit wibbly-wobbly, if I’m honest.”

“C’mon, let’s get you laid down somewhere,” Yaz instructs gently, lifting one of the Doctor’s arms around her shoulders and eyeing Ryan pointedly until he takes up the space at her other side. Slipping an arm around her lithe waist, she carefully maneuvers the Doctor up into the corridors. “You can take my bed, my room’s the closest.”

Ignoring Ryan’s scandalous expression, Yaz leads the way.

“A horizontal surface sounds brilliant right now, actually. Ten points to Yaz,” the Doctor mumbles, half-conscious and slumping further into their holds with each step.

“I’ll fetch the Doc some water,” Graham informs, determined to do his bit to help.

“It’s just through here,” Yaz grunts a minute later, her bedroom door only distinguished by the green tint to its panelling. Each of them bare a different colour; their favourites, in fact. When the Doctor doesn’t respond, her head hanging with an exhausted frown between them, she softens, attentive in the way she helps lay her down atop crisp linen. “Doctor?”

“Think she’s out of it, mate,” Ryan counters when his friend merely sighs in her sleep. Once he’s sure she isn’t going to come around any time soon, he eyes his best friend with a somewhat chiding frown. “She’s wearing your jumper — did you two…”

“No, I —” Yaz starts, slipping her hand away from the Doctor’s wrist once she’s taken in the steady double beat of her hearts twice over, just to make sure. “I know it’s selfish, but I couldn’t stop myself.” She slips a blanket over her form when the Doctor shows no signs of slipping beneath the sheets, then moves to wriggle her boots free from her odd-socked feet. “She doesn’t remember, anyway. Guess it’s for the best.”

Ryan’s expression eases its tension. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?” Yaz counters with a bite which lacks venom.

“Like you don’t deserve it, mate,” Ryan replies in earnest, brows raised. “Like you don’t deserve her.”

“It’s true, though. Why else —” Yaz takes a steadying inhale, willing herself not to cry. “Why else would she only show any interest towards me when she’s not _her_, Ryan?” she questions in a small voice, sinking into the chair at her bedside and refusing to glance away from the faint scar dusting the Doctor’s chin. “Simple answer: she doesn’t feel that way about me.”

“Yaz,” Ryan reaches out, palm brushing her shoulder.

Weakly, Yaz shrugs the comfort off. “It’s fine, Ryan. I still got my chance, right? That’s enough for me, I’m fine,” she lies.

“You’re wrong, for the record,” Ryan shrugs, padding towards the door and opting to leave Yaz to it. “You’re not undeserving at all. And there’s definitely something there, between you. She’s just too dumb to realise.”

“Sure,” Yaz replies, allowing herself some frankly quite deserving self-pity, in her opinion. “I’ll let you know when she wakes up.”

With a sigh, more empathetic than frustrated, Ryan slips from the room.

The click of the door sliding shut welcomes the first in a stream of warm tears from Yaz’s brimming pupils. “Silly me, huh?” she whispers to the unconscious form before her.

When Graham slinks into the room a few minutes later, a glass of water in hand, Yaz briskly wipes her cheeks and averts her gaze to the plush carpet at her feet.

She’s not as subtle as she’d hoped.

“Alright, cockle?” Graham probes gently, and Yaz doesn’t have to look at him to sense the sympathetic frown on his face.

“Yeah, yeah, should really do some dusting in here,” Yaz croaks, giving herself away entirely. “Keeps getting in my eyes.”

“Ryan told me about your… situation,” he continues, hands clasped behind his back as he watches over their oldest friend.

“I don’t want to — I don’t want to talk about it,” Yaz replies, the words almost a plea. “Please.”

“I won’t push, I promise. Just thought I’d let you know that — y’know,” he shrugs, moving in a slow rock of his toes. “I’m here, if you did want to.”

“Thank you.” Yaz glances up with the response, offering a teary smile. “Just — not right now, sorry.”

“No need to apologise, Yaz. I’ll leave you to it. We’ll be in the kitchen if you need us, alright?”

“Yeah, alright,” Yaz replies, gaze returning to the blonde dozing quietly in her bed.

The door closes and her head drops to the pillow at the Doctor’s side, her features swallowing her view whole until she can’t memorise them any longer.

She slips from the room silently, allowing the corridor to guide her path until she comes to the familiar double doors of the library.

“Thank you,” she murmurs to the polished wood as she ambles inside, taking solace in the quiet serenity rows of bound paper can offer. She sinks into the purple sofa the Doctor had eagerly picked out only a few trips into their first meeting, revelling in the memory until a smile replaces her wavering frown.

She’s lost in a book about the indigeonous flora and fauna of Hephatia Three two hours later when quiet footsteps echo in from the doorway, and she’s ready to hide away and pine somewhere more secretive before the Doctor’s familiar face comes into view. She looks a little frazzled, cheeks a rosy hue, eyes glossy, and Yaz tries her hardest to stop the butterflies in her stomach from sending her senses into overdrive.

“There you are,” the Doctor announces somewhat shyly, pausing a handful of steps away. “I had a feeling I’d find you here. Don’t mind company, do you?” When Yaz glances around expecting Ryan and Graham in tow, the Doctor purses her lips into a small smile. “Just me, don’t worry.”

“‘Course not,” Yaz hums, unable to refuse the woman anything. “How are you feeling?”

“Bit headachey, but that’s to be expected when my brain has to download a bunch of new memories in one go,” the Doctor chuckles quietly, tapping two fingers to her temple. “Feels a bit like Paddington Station in here.”

“Right, yeah,” Yaz hums empathetically, oblivious to the Doctor’s pointed stare. “You should probably get some more rest, Doctor.”

“Mm,” she agrees with a slow smile, breathing a faint snort through her nose. “Got something important to do first. Absolutely crucial — vital, even.”

Yaz sets her book down and sits up, ready to jump into action with whatever plan the blonde has in mind.

When a warm hand catches her before she stands, her brow creases in confusion and she turns to meet green eyes in question. “I don’t think I’m following, Doctor.”

“My memories are all back, you silly thing,” the Doctor acquests, taking a fresh inhale when Yaz’s pupils widen tenfold and her heart races in both women’s ears. “And I’m not great with words, but —” She shifts, lifting a hand to Yaz’s chin and recapturing her desperately diverted gaze. “Actions sometimes speak louder.”

When she leans in, Yaz’s breath catches in her throat and leaves her to gasp into the decreasing space between them.

“Please tell me if I’m wrong,” the Doctor pleads in a whisper, noses touching.

Yaz makes a muffled little noise at the back of her throat which leaves the Doctor reeling, but otherwise doesn’t push her away.

So, unsure about what their future might bring, but, ultimately, absolutely giddy with affection, the Doctor closes what little distance stands between them and captures her lips.

Lost amidst pleasant surprise, Yaz can only respond in equal measure.

Because sometimes it takes a happy accident to put thoughts in order. And sometimes, time-travelling aliens need to focus on the present rather than agonise over the future.


End file.
